


Kristofer Hivju: Biting Cold

by skysonfire



Series: Kristofer Hivju [1]
Category: Kristofer Hivju
Genre: F/M, Fiery Fics and Bits, One Shot, One Shot Collection, sexy senarios, www.fiery-fics-and-bits.tumblr.com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire





	Kristofer Hivju: Biting Cold

Sand and snow bread my boots, and my chest is heaving from cold and effort. I know that my face is flushed.

I pull my hood back and shake the snow that’s damping my hair. I can do nothing but surrender myself to a chair by the hearth and raise my hands in reverence to the flames that breathe life back into my hands.

It’s late and the world is sleepy, so I stretch my legs and close my eyes. My mind is a tumult, and I grind my teeth against forces that I cannot control. I don’t understand what it is about the freezing darkness that calls me when he’s not here, but it’s the only thing that brings my heart to beating like he does. It’s the only thing that makes my blood move in the way that he forces it, and it’s the only thing that commands exhaustive sleep like the urgency of his touch.

My arms and legs feel weighted and I can no longer tell if consciousness holds me, although I can still sense the fire before me dancing.

There are measured footsteps behind me and I feel the atmosphere changing. His hand is heavy on my shoulder. Gods, I must be dreaming.

He rounds the chair, raised before me. The fire at his back, I cannot see his features, but I see the broad post of his shoulders and the wild splash of his strawberry hair. He wears a long wool coat and boots that hug at his calves.

I lean forward and reach for him, but he kneels before me, pushing between my legs. I hitch my hips forward and bring my gloved hands to his face. My fingertips are exposed and I catch the flesh at his temples, kneading my touch into his hair. He rushes at my face and I can see the glinting of his eyes. I know that they are blue, but in the flickering darkness they echo a deep, dangerous onyx.

“Not a word,” he warns, so I cover his mouth with my own and draw in the taste of tobacco on his tongue.

He places his palm against my face and moves his mouth behind my ear, where he brushes his beard along the soft skin of my neck. There, he bites at the throbbing flesh and I gasp. Behind my hair he sucks at me, while the fingers of his free hand move up the inside of my thigh.

I moan and writhe. I want to feel him – as a hard as I can – and I push forward — air coming to my lungs in short bursts. He bites harder and contacts the shield of my ear with his lips.

“Thirsty?” He asks, and I can tell that he is smiling, as is his way.

Melted snow touches down my forehead. Gods, yes. I am so thirsty.


End file.
